As Plastic as a Barbie

When I was younger, my mom would always press femininity on me. Back then, I didn’t know what was really happening, but now I do.

I never really wanted to play with my sister—all she ever wanted to do was play Barbie’s, house, or dress up. I just wanted to go to the park by my house and play tag or go in my back yard and make mud pies with my brother. Although my mom didn’t restrain me from doing just that, she still made comments that make me look back and think: Did she want a tom boy for a daughter?

She would comment on my hair and how it was always a mess. I couldn’t help it. My hair has always done what it wanted, no matter how much detangler spray she put in it. She would go out shopping and buy me dresses and skirts. I didn’t like dresses or skirts as you couldn’t run around at recess, play kickball, or tag in a dress. When wearing a dress you always had to act like a lady. She would eventually guilt me into wearing them, by talking about how happy it’d make her for me to wear them or about how much money she spent on them. She did this all throughout my childhood.

When I was around the age of eight, she called me a dyke for the first time. I didn’t know what it meant, but that memory is one of the strongest in my brain. She didn’t say it often, maybe once every other month, but each time she did, I hurt a little. When I did figure out what ‘dyke’ meant, I was around the age of twelve. I thought back to all the times she had called me that and all I could see on her face, all those times, was a look of dissatisfaction and disappointment. It was then, that I started to change.

I started to hang out with my friends more, the girl ones. I started to wear makeup and stopped wearing such baggy clothes. I let my mom buy things for me and I wore them without question. I attempted to control my hair. I stopped playing in the backyard with my brother and spent more time with my sister, who was an expert on makeup, boys, and cleavage.

I felt awkward the whole time. I thought I was in someone else’s skin. The three years that I wasn’t myself, were the worst years of my life, but my mom hadn’t called me a dyke once and that felt nice.

I was about fifteen when I got my brain back. Who cares if I’m not the stereotypical girl? Who cares if I’d rather play video games than go to a frilly dance? I know what I am and that’s all that matters.

The summer between my freshman and sophomore years of high school was a summer of change. I stopped letting my mom pick out the clothes that I bought. I would tell her that I wouldn’t wear that and it’d be a waste of money. After telling her this so many times, she let up. I stopped wearing so much makeup, sticking with just wearing mascara. I started being more independent. I stopped letting her tell me what I needed to be and started to be who I actually am.

I’ve only heard her call me a dyke a couple of times since then and it still hurts like the first time. Now, instead of letting her words affect me, I play along with her words, which is why I think she doesn’t do it often.

Looking at Aaron H. Devor’s essay “Becoming Members of Society: Learning the Social Meanings of Gender,” I conformed to the gender roles of a girl—be submissive, do as you’re told, act like a girl that a man would love—for about three years. Gender roles aren’t important to me, though, and I’ll never be someone I’m not again.